because of the mould

there is pale blue blooming in your teacup
feeding on your leftovers by the kitchen sink
off-white too in your pan and your bowl
your plate your mug your chopping board
where it’s still ingrained in the scars
worked in where the knife left hairline voids
like weeds between pavements

under hot water it smells of rot
but it washes away

when did you stop caring
did you ever begin
should I presume to ask

under hot water it peels away in sheets
small carpets of flora down the drain
stinking like death in heat
what were we before this
who have you become
what did I do to invite you in

you are pale blue blooming in the walls
under the floorboards feeding
on the house’s tired foundations
its skeleton and mine

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